by Jaine Fenn
She only spotted the road as she crossed it, and the whiff of rhinobeast shit hit her nostrils. She stopped and looked along the straight track of cleared earth. The road to Xuin. This was the farthest she’d ever come with Etyan, back when he’d foraged with her, unwilling to be parted even for a day. They’d been wary of the road, although the chances of meeting the caravan were low. Even if they had, so what? No doubt the skykin who ran it would look down on her, with her incompletely bonded animus and shadowkin habits. First alone knew what they’d make of Etyan, neither skykin nor shadowkin. But that was their problem. She didn’t care what “real” skykin thought of her. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her.
Except Etyan.
What was he doing now? He’d be worried, wondering where she was.
She shook her head and carried on, though her steps were beginning to drag. Perhaps they spent too much time together. The early days had been all about making their home – literally building it, because she insisted they did that, rather than getting the Countess’ people to do it for them – and finding how to live as a couple. And the sex, of course. But when the sex became more routine with time, and the living became harder with the drought, they started to take things out on each other. When they weren’t screwing or surviving, there wasn’t much else to do. They’d talked about everything they were going to talk about – or at least, everything Etyan would talk about. She knew she shouldn’t pick fights but when they rowed she saw the fire in him, the spark that made her love him. And eventually they’d make up, and remember what they were to each other.
Making up after this would recapture the fire. If he thought she was leaving him then when she didn’t maybe Etyan would finally share everything with her, the way she shared everything with him.
Eventually, with Whitemoon setting, she stumbled. Exhaustion had crept up on her. She found a pus-bush by its smell; that would be enough to keep most creatures off her while she slept. Fighting the instinct to lie straight out along the axis of the world, she curled up, her back against the disconcertingly rubbery stems, and concentrated on ignoring the discomfort of the bare ground, the pull of the north, and the stink of her hiding place.
Light woke her: she’d slept through to dawn. Her limbs felt stiff and heavy; the cold had got into her overnight.
She rolled out from under the bush, crouched to pee, then stood and stretched.
If she turned around now she could be back at the umbral for dusk. That would be the obvious option. That would be what Etyan wanted, what he expected.
Which was why she wasn’t going to do it. She was going to stay out longer. Make him wait.
But where should she go?
She looked around. The mountains of the Northern Divide broke up the horizon ahead. She’d come a fair way already but Shen still dominated the view to the east, a looming dark patch rimmed with clouds. She’d just been travelling around the shadowland, not away from it. She’d been raised in Shen, gone out to be bonded, fled, and come back. It was like the shadowland wouldn’t release her: she could circle it but not escape its influence.
Oh yes I can! She knew just where to go now.
CHAPTER 7
“Holiness?”
He was in a dark place. Not a bad place, but dark. He had been here some time, though he was only just realising it. He knew this place. It had been his home once.
The cave.
Of course! His ghost was right–
I always am.
Ah, that familiar, infuriating reassurance. This place though, was from before, back when he was alone. No, not always alone. They came to him every few days, to tell him about the world beyond: the healers and hunters, the pathfinders and builders, the seer–
“Holiness? Can you hear me?”
The voice came from outside the cave. From outside the memory of the cave. The fast-receding memory of the cave…
That was then, this is now.
He blinked, and opened his eyes.
A calm-eyed man of middle years leant over him, his expression relieved. “Holiness! You have returned to us!”
The man’s name would come in a moment. He felt weak, fuzzyheaded. But better all the time.
“Holiness, can you speak?”
A good question. He swallowed, and tried to clear his throat. A dry rasp emerged.
“Ah!” The man looked concerned. “You must be thirsty, of course.” The face moved away, replaced by a view of a wooden ceiling, darkened by lamp-smoke.
The man returned. A beaker was pressed to his lips. He drank.
Tephat. The man’s name was Tephat. And Tephat is– Your head hospitaller, his ghost supplied.
Of course he was.
“Holiness?” He focused on hospitaller Tephat. “You said I should I ask your name, when you awoke.” He sounded perplexed at the request.
But it made sense. With every passing moment, everything made more sense. He cleared his throat, and gave a brief “Hah!” to check his voice was still working. It was. “I am Sadakh, Eparch of the Church of the First Light and–” he turned his head, which felt a little light on the pillow but moved without pain or discomfort, “–I am in the infirmary of my priory, in the city of Mirror-of-the-Sky in the shadowland of Zekt.” A long, long way from the cave where he had spent the first third of his life.
Tephat smiled. “Yes, Holiness. That is so.” He continued, “I did as you commanded, and watched you every moment I could. When I had to rest or attend my other duties, one of my trusted subordinates took over the vigil.”
“Good. And how long was I unconscious?”
“Two days.”
As predicted.
His ghost sounded smug. Yes, this fitted with the earlier trials. “How fare my flock?”
“Poliarchs Hekmat and Antreph stepped in to carry out your duties after you, ah, collapsed. There has been much concern.”
“But nothing untoward happened while I was oblivious to the world.”
“I am not sure what you mean, Holiness.”
He was being too obtuse. This man was a healer, not a politician. “As far as you are aware, neither the priory nor any of my flock experienced any unwanted attention from the Eternal Isle these last two days.”
“I do not believe so.”
He would get a full report later from his various sources. What mattered was that the prince had not taken advantage of the eparch’s temporary indisposition. “What did you tell your subordinates, when they kept watch over me?”
“Only that this malady appeared similar to one I had seen before, which the sufferer recovered from.” Tephat leaned closer, though they were alone in this corner of the infirmary. “No one else knows that it was a trial you inflicted upon yourself, Holiness.”
Tephat wanted him to know that his secret was safe, but the man was troubled at having to keep it. That might be a problem, down the line. If action had to be taken it would be a shame, as Tephat combined good medical skills with administrative acumen, making him an excellent choice to run the infirmary. He would be hard to replace. “And while I was unconscious, did I talk in my sleep?” Letting out secrets while unable to control his tongue had been another concern.
“You muttered to yourself when the fever burned high, but only odd phrases which made little sense. At one point you demanded someone tell you more, and on another occasion you appeared–” the hospitaller flushed, “–you were telling someone that you loved them.”
Your first life relived, his ghost commented wryly. But not in a way that could be used against him. That was a relief. “Bring my robes please, Tephat.”
“If you are sure, Holiness. You are still weak.”
“I have left my flock leaderless for too long already.” He smiled at his hospitaller. “Do not worry, I will be easy on myself. But at the very least I should be seen at the daily offices, even if my poliarchs still preside over them.”
“Of course, Holiness.” The hospitaller bustled off.
He took a deep b
reath, then sat up. Still a little dizzy yes, a little weak. That was to be expected. And, looking at the back of his hands, he saw the expected rash; going on the previous two tests, it should fade in a week or two. Otherwise, he felt well. But unchanged.
Has it worked?
Now that was the question.
CHAPTER 8
“M’lady, there’s a letter!”
“What?” Rhia blinked at the maidservant standing at the foot of her bed. “A letter, you say…” It had better be important to warrant waking her, although from the sunlight edging the shutters she had slept late. She had stayed up beyond the twenty-fifth hour, watching the last vestiges of the Harbinger’s tail sink below the horizon. “Who from, Nerilyn?” Perhaps Etyan had finally answered her letter, though his presence would have been more useful than a written excuse.
“I don’t know, m’lady. But it was brought by a priest, and he said I was to give it to you at once.”
A priest. Rhia’s heart flipped. “Hand it over, please.” She struggled to sit up.
Nerilyn did so. “Shall I open the shutters?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Light and heat flood the room. The letter was a single sheet of milk-white parchment addressed to “Rhia Harlyn” – no title or honorific. The seal showed the world-encircled Pillar of Light; Rhia had always thought the Church of Shen’s official sigil looked like the number one inside the number zero. She tore it open, unfolded the parchment and read:
From Cardinals Marsan, Vansel and Charain to Rhia Harlyn of House Harlyn, given on the 28th day of the 7th month of year of Separation 5361:
We have duly and fully considered your request and are willing to hold a grand trial to uncover the full truth.
The truth indeed! The cardinals wouldn’t know the truth if it fell on them!
The trial will commence on the first day of the new year.
Less than four months away. So little time to prepare…
While you await trial you are requested not to leave the city save in exceptional circumstances.
Meaning: don’t think of running off to another shadowland. Again.
We also advise against further dissemination of any potentially heretical material.
Of course they did. She should have expected that. But she had no intention of letting the Church stop her corresponding with other enquirers.
Finally, be aware that should your guilt as a heretic be established, the Church of the First in Shen intends to impose the maximum penalty, by the traditional means.
The paper quivered in her grasp. Rhia closed her eyes. They meant the death of the damned: to be bound, placed in a pit outside the city walls, and buried alive. They were calling her bluff. But they were also worried that she had the truth on her side: why else remind her not to spread her theory?
“M’lady? Are you all right?”
“Nerilyn!” She had forgotten her maidservant. “I…” The day’s warmth had receded from the room. These last couple of weeks she had been wilfully lost in her work, telling herself that honing her theory would avert the trouble ahead. But this letter made it real, inescapable. This time next year she could be dead, her papers burned, her household… She blinked back stupid, weak tears and said, “Nerilyn, fetch Markave and Brynan.”
“Brynan is at the market, m’lady.”
“What?”
“He has been going in my stead. With all the fuss in the lower city Markave was concerned for my safety.”
“Oh. Of course. Just fetch Markave then.”
She pulled up the thin bedsheet to give some semblance of dignity. She did not trust herself to stand. She must ignore both the heat of emotion and the chill of fear. She must be strong, for herself, for the truth – and for those who relied on her.
Nerilyn returned with her steward.
Rhia took a deep breath and said, “The Church is calling me to account for my work.”
Markave gave an odd look to Nerilyn, who stood next to him.
Rhia frowned. “What is it? I know I should have mentioned this earlier, but…”
“M’lady does not have to confide her business in us,” said Markave. “However, there was a rumour. Nerilyn?”
“Begging your pardon, but I heard you spoke to one of the cardinals when you got summoned to the palace a few weeks back, then went to see the duke the next day. We did wonder.”
“Please tell me when you have such concerns! You know I would not consider it improper.”
“You were so busy, I didn’t want to bother you…”
“Wait, how did you hear this?” said Rhia.
“Adern told me. He’s an under-footman. We’re… I’m seeing him, m’lady.”
Rhia had noticed a new spring in Nerilyn’s step. “Ah. That’s… nice. But I would be very interested in any other snippets Adern might overhear.” Servants were a useful source of information… although they could also be used against you. “Assuming he would be comfortable passing such information on.” She did not say assuming you can trust him. With Alharet safely locked away there was no reason to suspect Nerilyn’s young man was more than he seemed.
“I will report back, m’lady.”
“M’lady, how serious is this?” Markave asked.
Rhia met her steward’s pale gaze. “I am being tried for heresy in a grand trial. The penalty is death.” It still felt unreal to say it.
Nerilyn’s hand went to her mouth and Markave’s high forehead crumpled.
Rhia tried for a light tone. “But only if I am found guilty! And… even if that happens, there is no reason my guilt should taint you. If I am… gone, then I would hope that my brother would, finally, take on his duties as head of House Harlyn.” Assuming the Church did not try to have her House dissolved; no, they had no right. “Even if Etyan does not return, the duke will intervene to curb the Church’s zeal. You will not suffer for my actions, I promise.” She only hoped she could keep that promise if it came to it.
“Thank you, m’lady.” Markave still looked concerned, though he had relaxed a fraction. “We should let you rest now. Did you want food sent up?”
“I… in a while. Nerilyn, I have disturbed your day enough. Please go to your duties. Markave, please stay.”
The maidservant bobbed a curtsey and left.
Rhia did her best to find a reassuring smile for her steward. “There is a matter related to my current predicament which I need your help with.” This morning’s news prompted a decision she had been putting off.
“Whatever I may do to assist, m’lady.”
“Your two boys, how are they doing?” After Markave lost his first wife to the same plague that had taken Father, his young sons had been brought up by his sister and her husband.
“Tador is working at one of the minor Houses, learning his trade.”
Markave intended his older son to inherit his place as steward of House Harlyn; Rhia had agreed he could move in once he had been trained in household management.
“And Kerne?”
“Kerne lives with my sister still, though he is apprenticed to the plantsmen.”
“The horticulturists guild?”
“Yes m’lady.”
“You have told me of his interest in the natural world before. He is a sharp boy, yes?”
Markave gave a rare smile. “I think so. But I am biased.”
“Then I would like to speak to him as soon as possible.”
“To what end, if I may ask?” Markave sounded understandably puzzled.
“I wish to take on an apprentice.” She had planned to train an apprentice before she grew old and infirm, but the Church might not give her the chance to grow old and infirm.
“An apprentice?” Now her steward sounded downright confused.
“Yes. To inherit my role as Observer of Shen, should I… no longer be in a position to carry it out.” Markave knew of the enquirers, in broad terms. She did not keep secrets from him.
“I had assumed when your brother had a family, one of his children…
”
“That is what I had hoped, but there is no immediate sign of that, is there?” She tried to keep the bitterness out of her tone. If she did not have a nominated successor then Theorist of Shen could put someone forward. After all, he had two apprentices.
“But Kerne is… He is not of noble birth, m’lady.”
“I know that.” She had considered asking Francin if any youths at court had the potential to become a natural enquirer but even if a boy – or girl – with promise could be found amongst those little fops and rakes, such an appointment would start tongues wagging. Although no one in the palace save Francin knew she was an enquirer, everyone at the top of the hill knew about her “unseemly” interests, and schooling a courtier’s offspring or House scion in them would cause a scandal, and might be used against her in the Houses’ interminable games of politics. “But I will take a sharp mind over blue blood any day.”
CHAPTER 9
On the third day out from Shen, Dej spotted a pair of blocky shapes in the sparse landscape, between her and the now barely visible smudge that marked the shadowland. A tent and a covered wagon, resting out the day at one of the duke’s way-stations: confirmation she was on track. Not that she needed it. She might be incompletely bonded but there was one skykin ability that never failed her. Plus, she’d been this way before.
That evening she stopped early, rather than brave the mountains in the dark. She got out her flute. She often played for Etyan in the evening. This was the longest they’d ever been apart. He’d be worried. And maybe annoyed. But she wasn’t going to turn back now. She was making this journey not because anyone expected her to do it or to please someone else. She was doing it for herself. She’d go back when she was ready. The hollowness growing inside her wasn’t the old familiar need, the drive that led to errors of judgment, to trusting too easily, caring too much. It was just a physical thing: she was hungry, that was all.